


The Things I Do For You, the Things You Do To Me

by Zarathastra



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Rating NC17 DS themes complete PWP possible dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:00:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2667920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarathastra/pseuds/Zarathastra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds John's moments of self-doubt tedious sometimes.  He decides to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Things I Do For You, the Things You Do To Me

Originally posted on the Sh Prompting meme, a response to a prompt by the talented s0mmerspr0ssen. It's taken me two years to post it here.  Hope it finds favour.

**The Things I Do For You, the Things You Do To Me**

It took all of seventeen minutes for Sherlock to deduce what was wrong with John. All the way back to Baker Street John sat next to him in the back of the taxi, hunched up by the window, watching the raindrops on the other side of the glass. It wasn’t night-time but the lowering rainclouds made it dark outside the confines of the cab.

 

The flush of excitement from the successful conclusion of the case was fading and Sherlock saw John’s demeanour take a swift nose-dive. Ah, he thought, the adrenaline rush was dissipating and John was currently riding a wave of utter worthlessness.

 

Sherlock suppressed the inner sigh which usually came to him during John’s moments of doubt. They may have been valid now and then but they were tedious to deal with. No, John hadn’t been much help on this case, but he seemed to be unaware of how much he was needed. His value as a sounding-board sometimes even outweighed his value as a doctor.

 

As usual, John wouldn’t ask. Sherlock regarded him from behind his deliberately drooping lids and saw the need in his face, written in every inch of his body in letters almost too small to read. No, John would never ask. He somehow thought it was shameful to need it so much. So it would be up to Sherlock to carry the perceived guilt. He smiled into his hand. No problem.

 

The taxi slid to a halt outside their front door and Sherlock bundled John out onto the pavement, gave his shoulder a shove to usher him toward their front door and turned back to pay the fare. By the time he turned back, John had the door open and was disappearing into the hallway.

 

Sherlock barely waited for him to take off his jacket and hang it up before he crowded himself into John’s personal space, shepherding him up the stairs and through the door to their flat.

 

“What?” John asked, moving to get away from him.

“You only had to ask, John.”

 

“Ask what?”

 

“For what you need.”

 

“Oh? And what do I need, Clever clogs?”

 

Sherlock tried to convey his meaning simply by thought transference but John evidently hadn’t mastered the art. Time to spell it out, then, in letters of one syllable.

 

“Well, sleep for one thing. But later.”

 

He caught John’s hand up in his own and led him through the flat to his own room.

 

John tried to tug his hand away. “Sherlock…”

 

“You’re not actually, tired, are you?”

 

He didn’t wait for an answer, closed the door behind them and unbuttoned his jacket, turning as he did so to watch John’s expression. Ah, there it was. Finally, John was catching up with him.

 

“Oh.”

 

Sherlock’s smile turned wolfish. “I would ask what you wanted, John, but I already know.”

 

“You do?” John’s tone was breathless but he was in no fit state to argue. He was also unable to spell it out. Well, of course.

 

“Of course. Now, I’d like you to unfasten your jeans. I would offer to help but there’s something I need to fetch and it would save time for you to do it yourself. Alright?”

 

Sherlock smiled such a charming smile that John was captivated. John didn’t answer but he nodded, his gaze following Sherlock around the room until he saw where his flat-mate was headed.

 

There was a cherry-wood box in the bottom drawer of Sherlock’s chest of drawers. He had taught Mrs Hudson well; she never went into that bottom drawer, not after the curious incident of the scorpion in the night-time.

 

It wasn’t a large box, just big enough to contain the items Sherlock kept there. He looked back over his shoulder. John was fumbling with the metal button at his waist, sliding his zip down and opening the two halves of the unfastened garment.

 

“Carry on,” Sherlock said, shifting items around in the box. He waited for John to catch up. “Push them down, please John.”

 

“Not off?”

 

“Not what I said. Just down. Your underwear, too, please.”

 

He was always so polite, John thought. Such a polite bastard. John closed his eyes briefly. He wasn’t saying no, was he? He didn’t even know what Sherlock wanted and here he was, following instructions like a good boy.

Feeling foolish, he stood waiting for Sherlock to turn back to face him. His genitals were cold without the protection of his pants and trousers and he started to tremble. He wanted to see Sherlock watching him, enjoying the show. As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock turned and John swallowed hard, his gasp of shock caught in his throat. His heart began to thump and he tore his gaze from the objects in Sherlock’s hand.

 

There was something caught up in Holmes’ fingers. The fingers weren’t still, they were playing with the object and John recognised it straight away. He’d laughed with his mates about things like this, back in his Army days.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Shirt, John.”

 

Before he even knew what he was doing, John’s fingers went to the buttons on his cuffs, then to the front of the garment and it was off and on the floor.

 

Sherlock smiled at him, head slightly canted to one side. “Bed, I think,” he said.

 

“Too tired,” John muttered. Had he already said that? He could no longer remember. Without the adrenaline that had carried him through the night he felt himself winding down, completing the process which had started in the taxi.

 

Hands turned him to face the bed, guided him toward the edge of the mattress, pushed him gently down. He started to wriggle across the duvet, heading for the pillow and the dream he could feel starting at the edge of his consciousness. But the hands stopped him, stilled him on the edge, balanced with his toes barely touching the carpet and his hips stalled where they were. He felt ridiculous lying there bent over with his jeans and pants around his knees.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Just relax,” Sherlock’s voice murmured.

 

The gentle hands stroked his shoulders, his back, lowered to press down on his arse. John shivered in delight and followed the trail of the hands down his body, to the backs of his thighs. Then it got a bit wet and now the hands were stroking his arse, invading this most personal space.

It tickled back there, there were wet, slippery fingers dipping in to spread the moisture, lots of it, leaving snail trails between his cheeks. He sighed and relaxed at last. The fingers moved, testing his muscles.

 

“Very good, John. Let everything go.”

 

And then there was a small object pressing against the ring of his arsehole. The insistent press of the hand he could feel made his anal muscle twitch. He gasped at the feel of the fingers still gently, firmly pushing, the muscle giving to allow the tiny ball to slip inside him.

 

John’s breathing stuttered. “Those are….”

 

“Beads. Yes.”

 

John was shivering. He flexed his internal muscles to feel the little sphere inside him. And as he began to enjoy it, Sherlock popped the second one into him. It was firmly attached to the first, slightly bigger, and added to the tremors going up and down his back.

 

“Have you ever done this before?” Sherlock asked softly so as not to startle John into any sudden movement.

 

“No,” John murmured.

 

“And do you like it?”

 

“Yes…” John hissed as a third, larger bead slipped into his well-stretched hole. He moaned at the feel of the beads within him, touching him internally, contributing to the burn he could feel inside. The walls of his passage contracted involuntarily around the invasion, making him gasp.

 

A sliver of memory fought through his addled brain, reminding him that he was a doctor, bringing to mind all the conversations he’d had with people who’d been a little too adventurous in the bedroom. “Have you…”

 

“They’re perfectly clean,” Sherlock said.

 

“How…how many…”

 

“For reasons of safety the beads, however many there may be, are part of one rigid, continuous piece of plastic,” Sherlock told him. “And if I told you how many it would spoil the anticipation.”

 

He applied more lubrication and pushed number four in. Again, it was slighter larger than the one before. He watched with fascination as John’s body accepted the increased size.

 

John began to feel fuller inside as the beads went slowly deeper. He breathed through his mouth and felt his chest hitch with the feelings conjured up by both the beads and the idea that it was Sherlock doing this to him. Flexing around the intrusive plaything, he felt an unexpected quiver of delight travel down his back. His heart thudded in his chest.

 

 

And Sherlock smiled down at him, held the line of beads still for a moment before moving them in a circular motion inside John’s passage.

 

John dropped his head to the bed beneath him and moaned loudly into the duvet. He moaned even louder as Sherlock pushed bead number five into him, driving him mad with the insistent motion.

 

“This is what you need, John,” Sherlock said softly, keeping his voice low and hypnotic, in keeping with the motion of his hand on John’s back and the slow push of the beads into him. “What if I were to stop now?”

 

John made as if to move, but Sherlock kept him lying still. “No…” John whispered.

 

Sherlock pushed bead number six into him, rotated them gently, maddeningly so. “Do you think you could come just with this motion inside you?”

 

John panted and didn’t respond.

 

“I wonder how long it would take.”

 

 

John’s hips moved on the edge of the bed, trying to move his legs, desperate for the release that was currently eluding him. He gasped at the sensations within him as bead number eight was lubricated and slipped in.

 

“You must be feeling full by now, John. Is it pleasant?” Sherlock moved the piece of silicone from side to side, listening with satisfaction to the groan that escaped John’s mouth. “You’re doing very well,” Sherlock remarked. “Shall I tell you how many there are still to go? No? You’d rather find out for yourself. I admire that kind of curiosity, John.”

 

He kept moving the beads as he slid number nine in. “Almost there, John.”

 

In truth there was only one more bead to go, but it was, as they all had been, progressively larger than the one before. John was panting now, mouth open, moaning louder. The repetition of his name was hypnotic, both grounding him and keeping him one step removed from what was happening.

 

Sherlock stroked his sweat-soaked hair, and then his back, neck to arse, then pushed the last and largest bead into him. John flexed his internal muscles and felt an electric tremor go down his back, gasping with the feel of it as it slid into him. He couldn’t have called the sensation pleasure, exactly, but it made him want to fuck himself on the rod of beads inside him, just to ride out the orgasm that was currently trapped inside him.

“Oh, no,” Sherlock said. “Keep still, John. There’s no hurry, we have all afternoon. Besides, you don’t want to injure yourself. Imagine how humiliating it would be if you had to consult another doctor. Perhaps a colleague.”

 

And John groaned again and went still.

 

“That’s better,” Sherlock soothed. “Now, where were we?”

 

And he took hold of the end of the rod and moved it again in that maddening circular motion.

 

 

The afternoon crawled by for John, twitching on Sherlock’s bed, face pressed to the duvet, hands fisted in it. Sherlock tormented him relentlessly with the plastic rod inside him, keeping it moving. The pleasure/pain was driving him mad; his pleas for release fell on deaf ears. Several times he’d tried to move his hips to put an end to the torment but Sherlock simply pressed down on him to keep him still.

 

“Only when I say,” he ordered, as his hand slid underneath John to feel his cock. “If you don’t stop trying to come I’ll make sure you can’t.” And he let up for a second to make sure John could see the leather cock-ring he’d left on the bedside table. “I’m trying to trust you, John.”

 

“It won’t make any difference soon,” John panted. And for the third time that afternoon he started to feel the gathering rush of his orgasm, before Sherlock’s hand folded around his cock and constricted it until the impulse faded. John let his head drop to the duvet and listened to the sounds of the traffic on Baker Street. The people out there had no idea what was going on in here.

 

Sherlock took his hand away and the room seemed to John to get smaller as his body recovered from yet another deferred orgasm.

 

“It excites you,” Sherlock said out of the blue.

 

John’s voice was so quiet he was almost whispering. “What?”

“Thinking of all those people out there who have no idea what you’re going through in here.”

 

“No,” John lied, certain that Sherlock knew he’d been thinking just that. He could hear them passing by through the window that Sherlock had left open, just for that purpose, he suspected. Sherlock was right, the bastard, but John couldn’t admit it, not even to himself. That he was letting this happen to himself was intensely humiliating and –

 

He cried out as Sherlock pushed the rod in again and pulled it out, the plastic beads rasping against his sore rim, and another orgasm threatened. Sherlock’s other hand closed around his penis and squeezed the base. And it was almost a kindness Sherlock was doing him by preventing his climax this time, because he knew it would have been long and painful. All the same, his voice rose in another cry of frustration and his hands scrabbled to grasp the duvet.

 

“Perhaps I should assist you next time,” Sherlock said conversationally. “If you need to be grounded, I could tie your hands. That might help. Behind your back, perhaps. What do you think?”

 

John was silent, the quivering was constant now and watching him Sherlock realised that the experiment was almost over. Such a pity, he was enjoying it very much. Still, it had been an interesting afternoon. And he did need John to write up his notes on the case.

 

He dribbled some more lubricant on the rim of John’s arsehole and grasped the loop that was trailing out of him, stuck to his thigh by the fluid that was leaking out of him. He gave the thing a tug and watched the next, smaller bead pop out of the hole. Another tug and the ring of muscle parted to let the next bead out.

 

Sherlock watched with great interest. The process was fascinating. Not just what the human body was capable of, but what it acknowledged as pleasurable, even when the brain was ignorant of the fact.

It was satisfying, listening to John’s voice raised in discomfort as one by one the beads came out, watching his hand clench around the fabric beneath him. Halfway through, Sherlock stopped again and for a few minutes used the rod to tease him, pulling it out and pushing it back in, watching bead number five push into John’s anus and pop back out again once, twice, three times. It could be that John had gone past the point of pleasure entirely.

 

But no. He slipped his left hand underneath John’s body even as his right was pulling on the rod and the doctor convulsed as his sphincter muscles gave up another of the beads and was forced to take it back in again by Sherlock’s insistent hand. He rutted frantically against Sherlock’s palm, encouraging the strong, slim fingers to squeeze harder, until his orgasm swept over every nerve in his body and he cried out in release and clenched painfully around the rod.

 

Sherlock had intended to pull the beads out but the clasp of John’s muscles around them decided things. It may be dangerous to do that now. So he left them in there, rolling John over and moving to yank his jeans and underwear off, then tugging the jeans back up. He zipped John’s fly and fastened the button for him, before pulling him to sit against the headboard.

 

At first, John’s face held a far-away expression. He stared at Sherlock with a strange mixture of contentment and misgiving, which amused Sherlock no end. When John stirred and made to stand up he felt the movement inside him.

 

“What…”

 

“It’s getting late, John. Time for dinner.”

 

“But…”

 

“I’m ravenous. I thought Angelo’s, unless you’d rather go to one of those curry houses you like, hmm?”

 

“I – can’t we stay here and order Chinese food?”

 

“We’ve been cooped up in here for hours, John.”

 

And why was that?

 

“So, Angelo’s?”

 

John sat on the bed to put on his socks and shoes and felt the discomfort of the beads rubbing his sore insides. He had a little grace before it would start getting unbearable again, after they’d finished and returned here. He wasn’t hungry and suspected that Sherlock wasn’t either, he just wanted to observe the sight of John aroused in a public place. And maybe Sherlock would be satisfied, take the beads out, and leave him in peace.

He was going to hail a taxi but Sherlock pulled his arm down to his side. “It’s only round the corner, don’t be lazy, John. It’ll only take ten minutes at the most.”

 

And he linked his arm through John’s and set a brisk walking pace, more of a trot, really, which without the benefit of underwear had John back on course toward a state of arousal within only a few scant minutes.

 

Angelo greeted them warmly, ushered them to their ‘usual’ spot and left two menus on the table while he bustled off to find a candle for the table.

 

Sherlock regarded John with amusement in his eyes as John carefully sat down, wincing at the press of the beads and the rub of his cock against the stiff seam of his jeans.

 

When their food arrived for once it was Sherlock who attacked his plate with a good appetite. John nibbled miserably on a breadstick, sure that everyone in the restaurant could tell he was in discomfort, and just what the reason was. Sherlock hadn’t let him wash before they came out, Angelo must have smelled him and surely he must have noticed his hesitant gait. He tried to keep as still as possible so as not to aggravate the situation but as the meal wore on he found himself fighting a losing battle.

 

“Not hungry?” Sherlock asked, smiling broadly.

 

“No,” John said.

 

“Never mind, John, we’ll be home soon.”

 

That was what John was afraid of.

 

Sherlock beamed, looking around the restaurant and sipping his wine. “We must do this again soon,” he said.

 

And John groaned under his breath and tried not to think of what the coming night might bring.

 

End


End file.
